


Ares

by WhenTheMoonMetTheSun



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, F/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-21 01:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12446912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenTheMoonMetTheSun/pseuds/WhenTheMoonMetTheSun
Summary: Promises are broken in the face of war. | Chrobin Week 2017 Day 7: Vows





	Ares

**Author's Note:**

> i really tried to write fluff to celebrate the end of Chrobin Week buuuut ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

He’s born for war.

A son must always be born where his father is, and Chrom’s first breath comes on the battlefield where his mother dies. It’s by luck or divine intervention that his father manages to escape with the newborn in tow, living to scorch more earth another day.

Chrom’s stepmother used to say that as a child he wouldn’t sleep when the night was silent. He doesn’t know if he’s primed to be restless now or if that’s the way he’s hardwired. He’s well aware that he’s most comfortable with Falchion in his hand and the Shepherds at his side—in his element with the sounds of swords clashing and men dying.

It’s all he’s ever known.

“Chrom? Chrom! There you are.” Lissa breathes a big sigh of relief and then narrows her eyes. “You weren’t in your room.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

She brandishes her staff threateningly. “You weren’t about to run off again, were you?”

He sighs. “You know I’m needed in the field with Frederick and the others, Lissa.”

“I know, I know! But Emmeryn asked for you. You can’t leave without saying goodbye to her again.”

Chrom smiles a little at her pout. “Okay, you’re right. Where is she?”

“Here,” Emmeryn says, her light voice carrying easily in the quiet of the corridor. Her footsteps are soft, and the halls on this side of the castle are dark even in the growing light of morning. He peers into the darkness and starts to slowly make out the gold of her robes. Emm’s smile is soft and sad when she reaches her siblings.

“I wish you wouldn’t leave so soon after you’ve returned, Chrom.” She reaches to straighten his cape at his shoulder.

He stops himself from sighing at the conversation they’ve had a hundred times. He wants to believe Emmeryn can end the war with diplomacy, but there won’t be anything worth negotiating over if they wait for the Plegian assault to overtake them. Unlike Emm, he can only make a difference through his sword.

“I can’t leave our troops without a leader,” he replies quietly.

“Yes, of course.” Emmeryn nods slowly, eyes downcast for a moment. “I admire your commitment to them, and I know I’m not the only one to worry for their loved ones in this war. But Chrom, promise me. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

He doesn’t.

He reaches for her hand and squeezes her fingers tight before saying goodbye.

* * *

Smoke coils into the sky, clouding the sun and stinging his eyes the closer he gets to Southtown. His horse whinnies, restless beneath him, but he pushes her forward a little harder. The smell of burning gets thicker, irritating his lungs, and this time he can make out flames curling around the rooftops.

A lone cloaked figure stands near the entrance to the town, and without thinking he dismounts and dashes toward them.

“Hey! You, there!”

The person turns, a heavy hood obscuring their features. Chrom slows his approach, taking note of the dark cloak with ominous purple markings racing up the arms. They’re familiar. He tenses, his right hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

“Who are you?” he demands.

The figure answers with a raised arm and a jet of fire racing toward him. He’s barely quick enough to dodge, the flames licking the hem of his cape and extinguishing quickly. The person launches themselves at him before he can catch his breath, producing a sword from their coat.

Chrom brandishes Falchion to knock back the attack, and he falls into a comforting state of mind, sharp and adrenaline-fueled. He swings again quickly, but his attacker smoothly moves out of range and prepares to launch another burst of flames. They’re a worthy opponent, and Chrom feels a thrill in his gut at being able to fight and not hold back.

Chrom evades the magic attack once again and launches a flurry of blows, pushing the figure back deeper into the village with each swing of his blade.

“Tell me who you are!” he presses when their swords lock together, even as he begins to put the pieces together.

He receives a grunt in response, the figure straining to match Chrom’s strength. Chrom pushes them harder, knocking the sword away from their grasp. They keep their balance, but there’s a hiss in the air and suddenly his opponent jerks back. The hood slips down their head, and Chrom sees them wince at the arrow embedded in their left shoulder.

Chrom stares, breathing heavily. “You…you’re a woman?”

Her expression is carefully controlled when she locks eyes with him, one hand gripping the shaft of the arrow. “Are you disappointed, crown prince?”

“Milord!”

Chrom’s attention turns to the familiar voice of his lieutenant for a split-second, and it’s enough of an opening for the mysterious woman to run, clutching at her shoulder.

“Wait!” he yells, but she melts into the smoke and ashes like she’s fire herself.

“Milord!” Frederick is fuming, reeking of smoke and covered in soot, trailed by Sully and an archer he’s never seen before. “Milord, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine! We have to hurry.” Chrom coughs through the smoke. “She’s the High Priest—Priestess.”

“I surmised as much.” Frederick’s expression turns grave, and he gestures to the smoldering remains of the town. “But we cannot abandon Southtown now.”

Chrom wants to argue, but his chances of catching up to her now are slim. There are casualties and damage to assess. He has to send word to Emmeryn of what they’ve discovered. He tells her he can end the war.

* * *

Frederick wants them to distribute posters with her face—to warn villages or help in their search—and Chrom is the only one who saw her face up close.

So he sits down with an artist and describes her.

It’s uncomfortably easier than it should be, her image branded in his mind as if he’s never seen a woman before.

Her face—he remembers her face vividly. Shame twists in his gut because he thinks she’s beautiful. He describes the paleness of her hair, the dark almond eyes, and the set of her mouth when she’d turned to look at him for the first time.

He feels sick to his stomach that he wants to see her again.

* * *

He’s ready for her the next time, his movements quicker and his gaze more alert to the tricks she can do with magic.

She notices, thrilled, and their battle starts to feel more like a spar, with her prodding his defenses to find a weak spot and no intention of killing him. He wants to trust that she won’t, but when his concentration slips and she has a bolt of lightning crackling inches from his chest, he thinks he’s done for.

The High Priestess pulls her hand away slowly, smirking. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

Chrom struggles to pull himself to his feet, digging Falchion into the dirt to hold himself up.

“Why are you doing this?” This meaning the war or how she toys with him or why she makes him feel wild like the lighting in her hand.

“…Because I must,” is all she says before turning her back on him.

“High Priestess!” he shouts after her. Before he knows what’s happening he feels a heat like the desert on his lips.

He stares at her, bewildered and bewitched by the coy smirk on her face.

“Robin,” is all she says before she slips away, disappearing into the sand dunes.

Hours later, curled and cramped on his cot, he thinks he can still feel the warmth of her mouth. He sleeps soundly, hating that he finds her in his dreams that night.

* * *

It shouldn’t be a game, but it turns into one. War is tricky and beautiful, and he finds himself chasing it, just to get another chance to pit his wits against it.

Every time he expects to find her among the enemy, directing them to act out her perfect strategies. Sometimes she’s there, eyeing him from across the battlefield, her eyes dark and her might merciless. She corners him or he corners her, and they always let each other go.

Other times, she’s gone and he’s learned enough from observing and fighting her to know how to thwart someone imitating her moves.

Those are desperately needed victories for the Shepherds and for Ylisse—for Emm—but he doesn’t know if victories like that are worth it.

* * *

“Emm? Emmeryn!? Oh gods…”

Lissa wails behind him, but it’s like he’s been submerged into a tempest, the roar in his ears is so loud. He sinks into the dirt, blood soaking into the knees of his trousers.

“S-sister,” he sobs, gathering her into his shaking arms. “Emmeryn…”

He cradles her as tears fall down his face, broken and betrayed. How could she do this to him? _How could she?_

“I’ll kill you,” he growls, knowing that wherever she is, she’ll hear him. “I swear I’ll kill you!”

* * *

The rain drenches them both, and Chrom wants to scream at her. _Why are you just standing there? Why aren’t you fighting back?_

One flick of his wrist, and he knocks her backward, her blade slipping from her hand easily. Her tome is soaked and abandoned across the field. Falchion drops to the mud, and Chrom pins her to the ground with a knee of either side of her.

She stares up at him, rain clinging to her lashes.

“I’ll end this,” he promises, rage abating in the face of her acceptance.

Robin closes her eyes.  “Emmeryn would be proud of you.”

She’s taunting him, and he seethes, grabbing both of her forearms tight until she winces. “Don’t you dare say her name.”

“I did what I had to for my country, Chrom.” She retorts through her teeth, her gaze steely but resigned. “Do what you have to for yours.”

He lives for war.


End file.
